


Growing Season

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Drama, Explicit Language, Fluff, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post War, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-19
Updated: 2009-08-19
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: George agrees to Ginny’s suggestion that Neville assist in growing a few plants for his business, only for George to find himself increasingly envious of Neville’s relationship with Ginny.





	Growing Season

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for Auntbijou for Weasley_fest 2009.

 

**Growing Season**

 

 

George closed his eyes prior to the start of Fred’s funeral, willing the numbness that had filled him since his other half had died to surround him, to fill him completely. It was the only way he’d be able to survive the day. His eyes prickled behind his lids and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Emptiness surrounded him, winding around and through him heart and soul, lack of feeling and emotion wrapping tightly around him like a winter cloak, or perhaps like a funeral shroud of his own making, one constructed especially for the walking dead. That was how he felt. He needed the numbness today, needed to be calm and capable, perhaps even able to deliver small smiles and crack small jokes, whatever it took to endure the day.

 

His chair was in the front row with the rest of the immediate family, directly in front of Fred’s coffin. Even through the emptiness, George felt his throat close and tears threaten. 

 

Fortunately, the officiant chose that moment to begin the eulogy. George held still, concentrating on the flowers piled atop the coffin, letting the words wash over him without hearing anything more than a dull drone. Memories came, unbidden, in flashes. Turning Ron’s teddy bear into a spider. Being Sorted into Gryffindor together. The fury on Umbridge’s face as he and Fred left their formal schooling behind for good. Opening their shop, and the first day of business. How they’d danced following their first earned Galleons. Joking with Lee before Potterwatch broadcasts. 

 

Fred’s unseeing eyes, staring upward at whatever it was the dead saw. It had happened so quickly. George hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye. The veil of nothingness surrounding him rippled and threatened to shred apart for a brief, terrifying moment, and he clung to it more tightly. He would go mad if he let go now, if he let himself feel.

 

Tears slid down his cheeks, scalding hot as he stared blindly ahead. He could feel his hard-fought numbness slipping away like smoke through his fingers. The officiant was still speaking, his voice grating on George’s nerves, and he prayed the man would finish soon.

 

He did.

 

George joined the rest of his family once the service ended, surrounded by mourners, embracing the women and shaking hands with the men, listening to words of condolence that might as well have been spoken in a foreign tongue for all he understood. He vaguely recognised members from the Order, former schoolmates, old Quidditch teammates, fellow members of the Weasley clan, even a few regular customers from the shop.

 

The concern was nearly palpable. He saw it in too many pairs of eyes, felt it in every embrace and handshake, heard it in muted whispers as they turned away from him. _How dreadful it must be, to be torn in half and still breathe?_

 

He managed to refold the numbness around him and regain his equilibrium as the parade of mourners went on and on. The tears stopped, his hands stopped trembling; and eventually everyone went away, back to the Burrow where tables groaned beneath the weight of food and drink.

 

“George?” Molly’s hand touched his elbow. “The family’s ready to go.”

 

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be along, Mum. I – I need another few moments, all right?”

 

She nodded, and a few moments later he was alone with Fred’s coffin, now lowered into the ground, the surface covered with a few spadefuls of dirt and individual flowers tossed in by other family members and friends. George sat down, crossing his legs, elbows propped on his knees, and didn’t move for a long time.

 

Eventually the chill from the ground seeped through his robes and he stood, muscles protesting. He glanced at the sky, a distant part of him thinking he’d best return home before Mum came back looking for him, and sighed.

 

“Gotta go,” he told Fred. “You know how Mum goes on and on about not leaving guests waiting, whether you want them there or not. Don’t go anywhere, all right?”

 

It was with a bitter smile on his lips that he Apparated back to the Burrow.

 

The smile faded moments after he arrived and the sounds of those attending the wake washed over him. He found he wasn’t ready to face those who’d attended the funeral yet after all, wasn’t ready to eat and drink and reminisce about Fred. The emptiness was too raw, too new still. Mum and the others would have to wait a few minutes more, until he regained his bearings and managed to put on a brave face. 

 

Instead, he walked around to the opposite side of the house, to the garden. Once it became clear the joke shop was a true success and not simply a flash in the cauldron, Mum had agreed last autumn to give him and Fred their own separate plot in which to grow some of the plants needed for ingredients for some of their products. The potions brewed from them were to be used for things like invisible ink, new items for Skiving Snackboxes, and a new line of colour-changing sweets they were planning to introduce. 

 

George still planned to work on the sweets. Fred would have expected nothing less.

 

Rounding the corner, he stopped in his tracks when he discovered he wasn’t going to get those last few moments alone, after all. He recognised Ginny easily by her long red hair, speaking to someone kneeling on the ground beside her. The man had removed his outer robe, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbow. George watched the man pull a weed, crumbling the soil between his fingers before looking up to reply to Ginny.

 

That was his bit of garden, George thought. Ginny might as well have walked up and punched him in the gut; it was that difficult to breathe all of a sudden. That was his and Fred’s bit of garden, and nobody else had the right to touch it. Nobody.

 

“Leave that alone!” he shouted, nearly screamed, breaking into a run toward his sister and her interloper friend. “Get away from there. Don’t touch it, don’t...”

 

Time seemed to slow and compress then, much as it had when George first learned Fred was gone. There was the same sense of standing outside of himself while simultaneously capable and aware of movement, of watching events occur, the movements jerky, or as though he and the rest of the world was swimming through treacle. 

 

He saw Ginny look at him, mouth opening in an O of surprise and alarm, saw her friend scramble in slow motion onto his feet. George caught a glimpse of the younger man’s slashed and battered face, a part of him trying to put a name to him even as he reached out and snagged his shirt with one hand, the other drawing back, fingers tightening into a fist.

 

“George, no!” Ginny cried out, too late.

 

His fist connected with a satisfying crunch. The other man staggered back, hands covering his nose, but not before George saw blood. Unfortunately, he also recognised who he’d just hit. Neville Longbottom, one of the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts and one of the nicest blokes George knew.

 

Ginny whirled to face him, her hands also clenched into fists by her sides, her face white with fury. George had the uneasy feeling that if he had been anyone other than the bereaved twin she would have already hexed him into next week. Possibly next month. Hell, she still might do it; she looked angry enough.

 

“What the hell was that about?” Ginny screeched. “Neville’s a friend of mine. Are you going to go around punching the rest of my friends, too? Or is Neville the only one you have a problem with?”

 

“That part of the garden belongs to me and Fred!” George shouted back. “No one else! Your friend can keep his filthy paws away from it!”

 

“Oh, George.” Ginny’s anger drained away as quickly as it had risen, brown eyes welling. “I’m...Mum told me what the two of you had planned, and I only thought to have Neville take a look at it to see what would grow best. Herbology was his best subject; he’s brilliant with plants, and I...” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I should have asked first.”

 

George relaxed also, partly mollified by her apology. Turning to Neville, he held out a hand, hiding his guilt behind a bland facade. It wasn’t Neville’s fault he’d been caught in the middle. “No hard feelings, yeah?”

 

“None taken.” Neville snuffled back blood, looking at George’s clean hand. “You’ll forgib be if I don’ shake just dow. I dink by dose is broken.”

 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Again? You’re not going to have a nose left if you keep this up. Let me see it.”

 

“No, I’ll do it. Fred --” George took a deep breath, resolutely ignoring the stab of pain caused by his twin’s name, and retrieved his wand, waiting for Neville to lower his hands from his face. “Fred and I got pretty good at healing spells after awhile. We had to, during the testing phase for some of our products.”

 

Neville snuffled again, wiping the back of his hand across his still-streaming nose, wincing, and lowered his hands. Blood smeared his lower face, and some of it had dripped from his chin onto his crisp white shirt. He held still while George siphoned away the blood with his wand, murmured _Episkey_ to stop the bleeding, and repaired the broken nose with another murmured spell.

 

“Want me to heal those slashes too, while we’re at it?” George asked, waving the tip of his wand over one of the gashes marring Neville’s cheeks. “You should have had someone take a look at them after the fighting ended.”

 

“Wouldn’t have done any good,” Neville replied with a careful shake of his head. “The Carrows used Dark magic to make them. They’ll have to heal on their own. It’s not as though I was a prize before I got them, anyway.”

 

“Neville...” Ginny said warningly, hovering over his shoulder. “Anyone would be lucky to have a catch like you.”

 

“That’s right,” George said bracingly. “Scars add character. I’ve had to beat suitors off with a stick since I lost my ear.” It wasn’t true – there hadn’t been anyone since he and Lee had broken things off the year after they’d all left school – but he doubted Neville needed to hear that. He performed a final mild cleaning spell, erasing the last traces of blood from Neville’s face, and stood back. “You and Charlie look of a size. Maybe you can borrow one of his shirts until this travesty of a shindig is over.”

 

“I’ll take you.” Ginny took Neville’s arm, guiding him toward the house. “We’ll look through his room. I’m sure Charlie won’t mind.” She paused, remembering what had just happened the last time she’d made an assumption, and sighed. “Maybe you should stay in the kitchen, while I bring a shirt. The last thing you need is another love-tap from one of my brothers.”

 

Guilt twinged again, and George reached out, grasping Neville’s other arm before Ginny tugged him out of range. “Gin says you’re a dab hand at Herbology. If you think you can give me some advice or assistance with this bit of garden Mum gave me...well, I guess that would be all right.”

 

“Thanks. Not for the punch, of course, but the other. It would be my pleasure to help.” Neville managed a smile before Ginny whisked him away, and George actually managed to smile back. He waited until they’d entered the house before straightening his shoulders and making his reluctant way toward the other side of the house and Fred’s wake.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

_Neville,_

_I wanted to apologise again for the incident yesterday. It’s very unlike me, but I suppose I haven’t been much like me since Fred...you know. I also wanted to thank you for not telling Mum what happened. Ginny and I are both grateful._

_Would you be willing to stop by the Burrow this coming Monday to discuss the garden? Late morning, around eleven? I’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind._

_There’ll be food though. Mum always makes too much._

_George_

 

He was more pleased than he thought he’d be when Neville replied the same day.

 

_George,_

_Eleven is perfectly fine. I’ll bring the butterbeer._

_Neville_

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Neville arrived promptly at eleven, bringing the promised butterbeer. George would have preferred something stronger, but this was essentially a business meeting and he needed all his faculties intact. That, and his mother would have kneazles if she caught anyone drinking in her house. He thanked Neville instead for providing the liquid refreshment and showed him to the kitchen table, making sure Neville was seated to his left. George could hear from his missing right ear, but it had an annoyingly muzzy quality, as though it had been permanently plugged with a great deal of cotton wool.

 

Summoning a plate of leftover lemon cakes from the pantry and uncorking the first bottle of what would surely be several butterbeers, George watched Neville get settled. “How’s the nose?”

 

“Good as new, or nearly,” Neville replied, setting out parchment and ink. “It’s not sore anymore.” 

 

“Gin mentioned ‘again’,” George continued, letting his curiosity get the better of him. It felt kind of good, to be honest. He hadn’t been curious about anything since Fred’s passing. “How often have you broken your nose? You’re supposed to dodge when you see blows coming.”

 

Neville shrugged, opening the inkwell and dipping his quill, beginning to draw a quick outline of the proposed garden plot. “There was first year, when I got into a scuffle with Crabbe and Goyle. The second time was fifth year at the Department of Mysteries, when some Death Eater kicked me in the face.” He began making notes in the margins outside the sketch. “Twice last year, during detentions with the Carrows. And you, of course. So...five. Hopefully it’ll be awhile before the next.”

 

“One can hope that it won’t happen again ever,” George said, and Neville gave him a lopsided smile. He had a nice smile, and George glanced away, disconcerted.

 

Fortunately, Neville began peppering him with questions about the proposed garden George had no idea how to answer: how much sun, how much shade, whether the soil was clayey or sandy, how much drainage, something about pH levels. Finally George held up a hand to make the questions stop.

 

“How about we just plant something that’ll grow nearly anywhere? Something forgiving?” he asked, hoping at least one of the plants he needed for the joke shop fit such a category.

 

“It depends.” Neville looked up from his outline. “What were you planning to grow?” 

 

“Food-grade dyes, mostly. We – Fred and I – were working on some colour-changing sweets. Lollies that changed your hair colour, nougats that cause polka dot patterns on your skin, that sort of thing. Fred wanted to see if we could make something that changed your skin to some of the more famous tartan plaids. Can’t you imagine a totally plaid McGonagall at Hogmanay? It’d be brilliant.”

 

“Oh, you can get those from your typical vegetable garden,” Neville said easily, dipping his quill again. “You can get blue from bilberries, and purple from red onion skins, yellow from celery, green from spinach, that sort of thing.” He paused, tapping his chin with the end of his quill. “Gran and I used to dye our Easter eggs that way when I was little. Of course, she added a bit of vinegar to make the colour stick, and a vinegary taste kind of defeats the purpose of colour-changing _sweets_....” Neville began making notes again. “Lemon juice could work, if you didn’t mind a sweet-tart flavour for the products you have in mind.”

 

George, who had imagined growing something a bit more magical and exotic, watched Neville write for several moments. “What about magical plants? Surely there are some that aren’t for medicinal or spell purposes.” It was times like these he almost wished he’d paid more attention in school. It might have altered the hit-and-miss ratio in his and Fred’s experiments enough so there were more hits than misses when creating a new product.

 

Sipping from his butterbeer, Neville propped his chin in one hand, forehead wrinkling in thought. “Bubotubers,” he said at last.

 

“ _Bubotubers?_ ” George exclaimed. “Listen, I’m the one running the joke shop...”

 

“No, I’m serious. I know the sap is used to make an acne solution, but the taproot will make a blue dye that you can use for your colour-changing lollies. Shrinking violet petals will make purple, and gurdyroot can be used for both green and yellow; the tops for green and the root itself makes yellow. It might affect the taste a bit...”

 

“Oh, there’ll be flavourings, and we... _I_...” George took a deep breath before continuing, “...know some charms that’ll get rid of any tastes that don’t belong. I just didn’t want to accidentally poison a potential customer. Repeat business is important to stay in business.” 

 

“Good advice worth heeding,” Neville agreed, pushing the sheet of parchment on which he’d been scribbling across the table for George to look over. “I’ve drawn a diagram of your garden plot, along with what and where to plant. Take a look, and let me know if you have any suggestions to add.”

 

George took the parchment, giving it a cursory glance. “You’re the Herbology expert. If you think this works best, I’ll take your word for it. When do you want to start?”

 

“I’ve been helping Professor Sprout clean up and repair the Hogwarts greenhouses, but the school has loads of volunteers as it is. I’ll ask if she needs me, but I don’t think there’s going to be a problem. She says I spend too much time on castle grounds as it is.” Neville retrieved the diagram and folded it, tucking it into his jeans pocket. “Wednesday morning, bright and early?”

 

“Wednesday morning it is.” George got to his feet, holding out a hand for Neville to shake. “Thanks for coming by. I really do appreciate this.”

 

“I’m looking forward to it.” Neville’s handshake was firm and sure, lingering a moment longer than was strictly professional. “Be prepared to work, though. I tend to take a hands-on approach to gardening, just so you know.”

 

“I consider myself warned.”

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

George shoved his spade into the ground so it stood upright and straightened with a suppressed groan. Pulling off his shirt, he wadded it up, using it to mop the sweat from his forehead. “Tell me again why we shouldn’t use magic for this?” he asked, glancing toward his companion. “It would make things ever so much simpler.”

 

Neville stuck his spade into the ground also, resting his weight on the handle on crossed forearms. “You could use magic,” he replied, “but a lot of times the spells interfere with the plants in weird ways, especially if the plants are also magical. Sometimes the plant’s properties are overly strengthened, and other times it’s the opposite, and occasionally they’ll do something they were never intended to do.” Taking off his dragonhide gardening gloves, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead before continuing his explanation. “If you do the work manually, though, you don’t have to worry about that happening. Instead, it’s like putting a bit of your own magic into the soil. You get...you get a feel for the soil, and the plants, and whether they’re growing happily or need a bit of assistance, and in the end you wind up with healthier plants. It’s kind of complicated.”

 

“Do you talk to them, too?” George chuckled. “I caught Professor Sprout doing that once. Do you think they listen?”

 

“I don’t know if they listen, much less understand,” Neville said, moving to grip his spade again, “but they don’t talk back or disagree, or give advice you never asked for, or tell you what you should or shouldn’t do when all you wanted to do was rant a bit. They’re very forgiving if you swear at them. I think they know it isn’t personal.”

 

“It sounds like the personal experience of someone who’s ranted at their garden more than occasionally,” George noted dryly. 

 

“Maybe.” Neville smiled and resumed digging. George debated putting his shirt back on and decided against it. It was too hot for shirts, but the digging had to be done. Sighing, he rejoined Neville in turning soil.

 

He looked up an unknown time later when Neville paused, catching sight of Ginny approaching with a tray bearing a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade, along with two glasses.

 

“Oh, good, lunch,” George said gratefully, dropping onto the ground. “You never told me your friend the herbology expert was such a slave-driver.”

 

Ginny laughed, handing the tray to Neville and exchanging grins with him. “Physical labour’s good for you. It builds character, as Mum would say. Besides, I can’t remember the last time I saw you break a sweat.” Pulling out her wand, she Transfigured one of the spades into a small table and Neville’s gardening gloves into two chairs. A trowel turned into a third chair, and Ginny sat, looking back again toward Neville. “Mum didn’t know what sandwiches you liked best, so she made several different kinds. There’s ham and cheese, egg salad, and chicken and mayonnaise. There might be some roast beef in there too; I know we had some left over.”

 

“Dibs on the beef,” George said quickly, reaching for the sandwich he’d spotted that looked appropriately beefy and biting into it.

 

They ate sandwiches and drank lemonade, George mostly listening while Ginny chatted with Neville. Their conversation was easy, effortless, filled with the sort of teasing and banter found between the closest of friends. It was almost like the way he and Fred used to talk, or the way he and Lee had talked before the break-up. George drank a large swallow of lemonade in an attempt to drown the tightness in his chest.

 

“How’s Harry?” he asked during a lull in the conversation. “I haven’t seen him since the funeral.”

 

“He’s been busy,” Ginny replied, her tone oddly curt, shoulders hunching for the briefest of moments. Under ordinary circumstances, George would have leapt at the opportunity to take the piss on his baby sister and her love life; but with Fred gone he found he couldn’t be arsed. If she was on the outs with the Saviour of the Wizarding world, it was none of his business.

 

“He’ll come around,” Neville said calmly. “He usually does eventually, more often than not.”

 

“Yes, well, he’d better.” Ginny began gathering plates. Standing, she Transfigured her chair back into a trowel. “I’ll leave the lemonade out here with you. There’s a cooling charm on the pitcher, so it should stay cold until you two are finished.” 

 

George nearly asked her to leave the sandwiches too, but decided against it as Neville helped Transfigure the table and chairs back into spades and gardening gloves. There was no sense getting dirt and insects on good food; and Repelling charms didn’t always work against ants. They were almost finished digging, anyway. If they got hungry again, they could always return to the house.

 

“You and Gin seem pretty close,” George remarked casually once his sister had left them to their work. “Should I be worried?”

 

Neville snorted, hefting his spade. “We’re best mates, is all. We’ve been friends for ages, but after last year...well, I trust her like I trust very few others, and hopefully vice versa. We can tell each other things we probably wouldn’t admit to most people.”

 

“Hmmm,” George replied. “Is she on the outs with Harry, then?”

 

“They’re going through a rough patch,” Neville answered after a moment. “They’ll get through it, or they won’t. I’ll be happy for her if they do, and if they do break up I’ll be there for her then, too. It’s not as though she’d have to wait long before someone else enters the picture, if things don’t work out.”

 

_I think I know who that someone else is._ George frowned and picked up his spade, following Neville back to the half-dug garden plot.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Neville returned to the Burrow the following day with two flats of the plants George had, with Neville’s advice, decided to grow. There were bubotubers and shrinking violets, butter buttons and prism lilies, gurdyroot and a few other varieties George had already forgotten the names of. Putting them into the ground was another day-long project, spent digging holes into the ground, nestling plants into the earth, and patting soil around seedlings and root balls and rhizomes. Ginny brought lunch again, this time cold chicken and half of a strawberry tart, and George endured another hour of listening to their comfortable conversation.

 

It wasn’t that Neville didn’t talk to him while they worked. He did, but George noticed he paused more often, chose his words more carefully than when around Ginny. He barely knew the bloke, and already George envied the easy camaraderie between Neville and his sister. It would take time, if ever, before he found the same again with Lee. Even more worrisome was how badly George wanted to share that same camaraderie with Neville. 

 

It was sudden, and it was maddening. There was no sane reason why he found himself so inexplicably obsessed with Neville bloody Longbottom, who liked his sister even if it was unrequited. They had that much in common, it seemed.

 

George lingered at the Burrow once the plants were in the ground and Neville left. The shop had remained closed since before Fred’s death, and the pain of losing his twin was still too fresh and raw for him to consider restocking shelves and sorting through the inventory in back, much less reopening for business. Sleeping alone in the flat above each night was hard enough. Hell, were it not for Ginny’s interference, the garden most likely would have waited another year.

 

“This is all Ginny’s fault,” he told the plants. “It’s all one fucked up mess right now, is what it is. Gin’s in love with Harry who’s too busy to give her the time of day, Neville’s in love with Ginny who only sees him as a friend, and I’m falling for Neville who’s more interested in my sister. You’ve got it easy. All you have to do is sit there and grow, and hope there’s enough water. The world would be a better place if humans could pollinate indiscriminately like you do. No emotional attachment involved, just boom! Babies, every spring.”

 

He hesitated, then shook his head with a snort, and sat down on the grass next to his garden. He had plants to rant at now; he might as well take advantage of it.

 

It turned out he had quite a bit to say.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

George was a frequent visitor at the Burrow as the weeks passed, talking and hashing out his feelings and emotions to a quietly accepting green audience while weeding the garden and making sure the plants that needed it had enough water. He hadn’t killed anything yet, despite his years of not paying attention to Professor Sprout’s lectures in Herbology, and he was quite proud of himself. Plants seemed as forgiving as Neville claimed.

 

He often spotted Neville during his visits, usually with Ginny. George told himself he didn’t mind seeing them together, especially when all he ever saw them do was talk. All that meant was that Harry and Ginny were still technically together. Harry still stopped by occasionally, so there was still hope. George wasn’t sure he wanted to admit, even privately, what he was hoping _for_. It was too tenuous, too fragile.

 

He and Neville usually ended up tending the garden together, regardless of whether or not the other man had originally come to see Ginny. Occasionally he’d help George with Mum’s vegetable garden as well, or weed the plot of kitchen herbs. George grew resigned to the sight of Neville on his hands and knees, muscles moving fluidly beneath his shirt, denim pulled taut across his arse, and being unable to do anything about it beyond fantasising what lay beneath. The last thing Neville needed to know was that George often dreamed of pushing him face-down in the dirt, tugging his trousers off just enough to give him access to that tantalising arse, and having his way with him. Of course, having him garden naked would be just as nice to watch, but highly unlikely. They were dreams, nothing more, nothing less.

 

George took small comfort in the fact that Neville opened up a little further in conversation the more often they worked together. He remained mostly reticent, revealing only bits and pieces about what he and other students endured under Snape and the Carrows. He talked about his frighteningly formidable Gran; some of the stranger places he’d found his toad, Trevor, following some of his adventures; his almost shame-faced admission that he preferred butterbeer and liqueurs over Firewhisky and its brethren.

 

And of course, he talked about gardening and plants. George would let him ramble on for hours, just to hear the sound of his voice and the excitement in it, compared to his more typical shy reserve.

 

“My Grandad liked to garden,” Neville explained, picking a yellowing leaf from one of the butter buttons. “He’d bring me out with him and let me play in the dirt while he worked, even though it drove Gran mental, since she was the one who had to give me a bath afterward. After awhile he started pointing out which plants were which and let me help him with the weeding and watering, and when I was six, he gave me my first packet of seeds and set aside a bit of earth for my own.”

 

“It sounds as though he was quite the influence.”

 

“He was.” Neville smiled in fond reminiscence. “My first influence, but it was Professor Sprout who told me I had a gift and shaped it.”

 

“But it was your Grandad who first gave you the interest. Do you think she would have been as successful if he hadn’t given you those seeds?”

 

Neville shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Sometimes I think it was partly so I’d have a trade in case it turned out I really was a Squib. I’ll never know for certain. I just know this is what I want to do with my life, to grow plants and watch them bloom and flourish and thrive. Maybe moreso, since the war. Too many things were broken and destroyed. I’d rather create something that’s useful or pretty, something that will brighten lives.”

 

No wonder Ginny wanted to spend so much time with him, George thought, focusing on dusting slug repellent over the bubotubers, careful not to burst any of the pustules on the stalks. The ability to stay upbeat, even hopeful, especially after the things Neville had experienced, was a thing both rare and wonderful, worthy of its own form of cultivation. It was one of the reasons why he and Fred had opened a joke shop, after all, to give people the opportunity to laugh even in the darkest of times. Wasn’t that still a worthy goal? Wasn’t it something Fred would have wanted to see George continue, even if he was no longer there to assist?

 

Wasn’t laughter still worthy of cultivating, too?

 

“It sounds as though your Grandad was a good man,” he said instead, clearing his throat.

 

“He was.” Neville nodded, looking down at his gloved hands. “He died when I was eight. I still miss him.”

 

George sat back on the grass, crossing his legs and reaching over to grasp Neville’s arm. “Does it ever go away?” he asked, the horrid, lonely emptiness filling him since Fred’s death welling up to colour his words. “The pain of losing them, missing them? Does it ever go away?”

 

Sympathy turned Neville’s brown eyes soft, but he didn’t look away from the desperate appeal surely marking George’s expression. Drawing one leg beneath him, he rested his chin on his knee, lips pursing in thought.

 

“You never stop missing them,” he said softly. “The pain becomes less over time. It doesn’t feel so much as though you’ve been stabbed in the heart – it’s more like an older relative’s bad knee. There’s an ache that comes and goes, and some days it’s worse than others, and some days you hardly notice it at all. It does get better, but it never completely goes away. If it did we’d have nothing to remember, and I don’t think that’s what you want.”

 

“I just want it to stop hurting,” George whispered, arms wrapping tightly around his chest. “I don’t want to forget Fred, I just want it to stop hurting!”

 

Reaching over, Neville laid a hand on George’s knee, giving it a squeeze. “It will. In time.”

 

They stayed that way, still and silent, for a long time.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

The straw that broke the centaur’s back happened a week later, beginning when George spotted Lee in Diagon Alley, holding hands with Marcus bloody Flint, of all people. George ducked into a cauldron shop before he was seen, but the fact that Lee was already moving on with his life – with a damned Slytherin, no less! – placed a distinct damper on the day.

 

The shop itself reminded him of Neville and his old penchant for melting so many cauldrons in Potions, a feat that had become something of a legend in its own right. Thinking of Neville, of course, reminded him of the hopelessness of his own situation, falling for a bloke he had no chance of winning. He left the shop as soon as Lee and Marcus passed, walking in the opposite direction.

 

Apparating to the Burrow to check on the prism lilies, which were nearly at peak bloom, he saw that Neville had arrived before him. Ginny knelt beside him on the grass bordering the garden plot, her head on his shoulder, Neville’s arm around hers; and as he watched Neville turned his head and kissed Ginny lightly on the cheek.

 

It was too much.

 

Shoulders squared and jaw firmed, George stalked toward the happy couple. “Neville, could I have a word with you, please?”

 

“Of course,” Neville replied, rising to his feet and holding out a hand for Ginny to do the same, his confusion evident when he met George’s eyes. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No, nothing’s wrong,” George said, lying through his teeth. “It’s just that...that I’ve decided since the plants are doing so well, I can handle the rest from here on out. I can owl you if I have any problems, which I don’t think I’ll have. Since the plants are doing so well, that is. You know. So...thanks for your help.”

 

Ginny’s eyebrows shot nearly to her hairline before lowering into a marked frown. Neville, on the other hand, went several shades of pale beneath his light summer tan. Neither reaction was what George expected, but he held his ground. The less Neville stopped by, the better it would be for everyone involved, especially himself.

 

“If you’re sure...” Neville said uncertainly.

 

“I’m quite sure.” George nodded for emphasis. “I imagine you have loads of things you’d rather be doing, so I’ll leave you to it. I’m very grateful for your help in this project, and because of it I’ll be more than happy to give you a discount on your next purchase from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” He paused, and added, “Once I’ve reopened it, of course.”

 

“All right,” Neville said slowly, still looking somewhat dazed by the sudden announcement. “Gin, I’ll...we’ll talk later, yeah?”

 

“Absolutely,” Ginny answered, shooting a sidelong glance toward George. 

 

Neville Disapparated. The moment the _crack_ dissipated Ginny wheeled to face George, hands on hips and looking angrier than he’d seen her since last Easter, after being told in no uncertain terms that she would not be returning to Hogwarts.

 

“What the _hell_ was that about?” she spat, taking a step forward. George took a corresponding step back, eyeing her wand hand nervously and hoping it stayed planted on her hip. “Neville has never been anything less than kind to you, and you respond by telling him he’s no longer welcome? Good Godric, if I hadn’t known better I would have thought you were sacking one of your shopgirls! Even your tone of voice was the same!”

 

“Maybe he should have been more careful in how he treats you around your brothers!” George shot back. “I saw you; the pair of you were a breath away from full-on snogging in front of the kitchen window where Mum could see!”

 

“He kissed me on the _cheek_ , you prat,” Ginny said disdainfully, pointing toward the body part in question. “My lips are here, several inches away. Besides, I can assure you snogging me was probably the last thing on his mind.”

 

“You seem very sure of that,” George snapped, taking the step forward he’d lost earlier. “I’ve had to watch you both all summer, close and cosy and practically dating in all but name. Does Harry know what you’ve been up to while he’s away?”

 

Ginny flinched as though he’d slapped her. Turning away, she said in a small voice, “I broke up with Harry. Yesterday, if you must know. Neville was here lending emotional support, and nothing more.”

 

“That emotional support looked pretty physical to me.” George crossed his arms. “He had his arm around you! He _kissed_ you!”

 

“On the _cheek_ ,” Ginny repeated past gritted teeth. “God, why do boys have to be such idiots?”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It _means_ ,” Ginny yelled, “Neville will always look at me the same way Lee does! Like the sister he never had! Do I have to spell it out for you?”

 

George stared, dumbfounded. “Neville likes blokes?”

 

Ginny rolled her eyes heavenward, muttering, “Merlin save me from the stupidity of men. _Yes_ , Neville likes blokes. More specifically, he likes one-eared, red-haired blokes named George who happen to have a wicked right hook.” Closing the space between them, she poked him hard in the chest, still bristling. “All those times he listened to me whinge over what to do about Harry? I had to listen to him talk about you, how much he liked you, how he had no idea on how to approach you. He didn’t want to push because of Lee breaking up with you and then Fred dying, and he tried to give you the space you needed while still being there for you. You had no clue, did you?”

 

“I thought he liked you...” George said weakly. “He...likes me?”

 

“Well, he did, until you all but ripped his heart from his chest,” Ginny snorted. “You might be able to win him back, if you move fast. I suggest you write to him, right now, right this instant. Then you grab Errol if he’s up to the flight; hell, steal Hermes or Pigwidgeon from Percy or Ron if you have to, and send him an apology. Maybe if you beg nicely enough, he’ll give you a second chance. I wouldn’t, but Neville’s a bigger softie than I am. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

 

“I...yes, yes, of course. I’ll do that.” George ran his fingers through his hair.

 

“Good.” Ginny looked at him, nodded in self-satisfaction, and turned toward the house. “Glad we got that sorted.”

 

“Gin?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why did you break it off with Harry? You’ve been so crazy about him for so long.”

 

Ginny’s smile was sad, tinged with more than a little irony. “He’s been expected to save the Wizarding World his entire life. Now that the war’s over he still has that need to save people, and...I don’t need saving. Not anymore.” She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I told him once he sees me as something more than a damsel in distress, we’ll talk, but not before. We’ll see how that goes, yeah?”

 

She resumed walking, and George watched her, lost in thought.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

George hadn’t been back to Hogwarts since Fred’s death. He might never have returned, under ordinary circumstances.

 

This wasn’t ordinary circumstance. This was an urgent, dire need to make things right.

 

Unsurprisingly, George found Neville in what used to be one of the greenhouses, part of a group of fellow volunteers clearing away rubble left behind from the battle. He hung back for a while, waiting until they broke for lunch before summoning up his Gryffindor courage and approaching Neville. The younger man saw him coming and hesitated, visibly torn between ignoring and acknowledging his presence.

 

Good manners won out, and Neville gave him a cautious nod in greeting. “Hello.”

 

“Hey.” George jammed his hands into his robe pockets, hiding his sweaty palms. “I remembered you telling me you worked here when you weren’t at Mum’s. Do you think I could buy lunch today? I have some explaining to do, and I do it best on a full stomach. It’s a Weasley thing. You’ve seen Ron eat, haven’t you? We’re all like that, even Ginny, though don’t tell her I said that. I barely avoided a hexing from her yesterday as it was.”

 

“She nearly hexed you? What did you do?” 

 

“I was being stupid, and she lost her temper.” George breathed a sigh of relief when Neville fell into step beside him, accepting the invitation. “She explained a couple of misunderstandings I had, and told me I had better make things right while I still could, which is Ginny-speak for ‘fix it before I hex off your bollocks’, and here I am. Three Broomsticks all right with you? They brew the best butterbeer in Scotland, I think.”

 

“The Three Broomsticks is fine,” Neville replied, still cautious. “What sort of misunderstandings?”

 

George waited until they’d passed the school gates before replying. A few other people had also opted to spend their lunch hour in Hogsmeade, but none of them were within earshot. George slowed down enough to let them pass, giving them some distance. “She told me you weren’t interested in her. Romantically, that is. See, I thought you were. Interested in her. Romantically. And I was...maybe a bit, um, jealous?”

 

Neville stopped in his tracks. “You were jealous of Ginny.”

 

“Right.” George nodded, couldn’t stop nodding. “I was, absolutely. I thought you fancied her, and she set me straight. Okay, not _straight_ , but she made it clear that I had nothing to worry about from her corner of things.”

 

“I see.”

 

“No, I don’t think you do.”

 

Neville still hadn’t moved. “George, if you want to tell me something, just say it. Quit faffing around.”

 

“Is it true you have a thing for one-eared, red-haired blokes with a wicked right hook? Because I happen to know one who would be interested in the job, if it’s still open.”

 

Neville’s eyes widened, his face turning alternately white, then red. “I might,” he replied. “The part about the right hook is open to debate; but yes, the rest of it could be true. You say you know someone like that?”

 

“I do.” George stepped closer, one hand going to Neville’s cheek, tracing the healing scars there with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Neville. I really am. I had no idea you were interested. I just hope I’m not too late, because you should know I’m most definitely interested in you.”

 

“You punched me in the nose.”

 

“I’m sorry about that, too.”

 

“You thought I was trying to steal Ginny from Harry.”

 

“I’m sorry. About everything.”

 

Leaning forward, George pressed his lips to Neville’s. The kiss was soft, careful, giving Neville the chance to pull away if he wished.

 

He didn’t. Instead, he shifted so they stood chest to chest, Neville’s arm stealing around George’s shoulder, drawing them even closer, deepening the pressure against George’s mouth until his lips parted and he felt the first shy touch of Neville’s tongue against his, their breath mingling. George reciprocated happily, barely able to contain the surge of emotion coursing through him as he slid his fingers into thick brown hair, holding Neville gently in place as the kiss went on and on.

 

“You’re forgiven,” Neville murmured, drawing back at last. His eyes were shining, brilliant with quiet pleasure. “You still have to buy lunch, though.”

 

“Neville,” George said with a bright smile, “I’ll buy you lunch every day, if it means keeping you.”

 

Neville’s return smile was equally bright, warming George from the inside out. “It’s a deal.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
